Mr. Van der Meer wagged a playful finger at her, “A dangerous sentiment, Miss Bennet. One that might just see you swept up in London’s exuberance.”
I grinned. “If anyone deserves to be ‘swept up’ in London, it is she.”
Jane shot me a warning look, and Charlotte stifled a giggle.
“Well—“ Mr. Van der Meer extended an arm invitingly towards the room— “let us see if any of the city’s excess can indeed match the charm you’ve brought with you tonight.”
“I look forward to it, sir,” Charlotte agreed. “But do lead us away from any precarious chandeliers.”
Mr. Van der Meer bellowed with laughter and offered one arm to Charlotte and one to Jane. I accepted my uncle’s arm as we followed them.
As soon as we were ushered into the main drawing room, I began my secret mission for the evening. With Charlotte’s recent aspiration for mistletoe indiscretions, we could not afford to let such a perfect opportunity pass us by. Mr. Van der Meer’s house was tastefully decked for the season, and… indeed, there it was. A little clump of green magic, complete with scattered white berries—perhaps a dozen of them. Plenty for Charlotte’s purposes. Now, just to assess the potential “candidates” present. If Charlotte was hoping for a touch of whimsical romance tonight, then by heavens, I would do my part to ensure it.
To my left stood a boisterous couple, their laughter ringing louder than the clinking of wine glasses. With flushed faces and the way they clung to each other, it was clear they were well-acquainted with the joys of mistletoe. Not candidates for Charlotte, but still, entertaining to watch.
I shifted my gaze to a quiet couple nestled in a corner, engrossed in what appeared to be a profound conversation. They seemed so wrapped up in each other that I doubt they’d even notice if a parade passed by. Second bite at the cherry for Charlotte, though I did spare a moment of envy for their intimacy.
Then my eyes landed on a young man standing alone by the mantle. His constant fidgeting with his cravat gave away his discomfort. New to London’s social scene, perhaps? He looked as if he’d be more at home in a library than at a lively party. How on earth had such a bashful-looking chap befriended the effervescent Mr. Van der Meer? But his apparent awkwardness gave him a certain... charm. Aha! Now, he might just be a possibility for Charlotte.
My contemplative gaze must have lingered a tad too long, for he caught my eye and quickly looked away, cheeks reddening. Hmm. Either he was waiting for a particular lady to drift that way, or he lacked the courage to grab a stranger under the arch. Perhaps not the fellow we needed, after all. Then again, I was not Charlotte. She, with her quieter manners and softer smile, might have better luck.
I sipped my wine, already plotting a way to casually,oh so casually, steer Charlotte in his direction. After all, every maiden deserves her mistletoe moment, and if I had any say in it, Charlotte would have hers tonight.
The heart of the gathering undeniably pulsed around Mr. Van der Meer. Like bees to honey, guests gravitated towards him. There he stood, the charismatic sun around which all the planets—well, guests—revolved, regaling them with tales of adventurous sojourns and the juiciest tidbits of London. Jane and Charlotte, with rapt attention, hung onto his every word. It seemed as if each time he unfurled a story, his audience—including my aunt and uncle, and my dear sister and friend—was left more enamored. I could hear the delightful hum of laughter and gasps of surprise from where I stood, sipping my wine and observing.
And while there was no denying his magnetism, to me, Mr. Van der Meer seemed… excessively sugary. The kind of sugary that made your teeth ache just a tad. His smiles were generously handed out like treats at a fair, and I began listening with an eye toward seeking the vinegar beneath the cream. Could a man so cheerful and magnetic be genuine? Where was the gaping character flaw? There must be one. All the interesting people havesomelittle quirk, and the most dashing among them usually hide deep chasms of vice.
But I saw nothing amiss in Mr. Van der Meer. He may have held court in the center of the drawing-room, but it was only because people flocked to him. He did not speak only about himself, and he seemed to know every detail about everyone else—Mr. Winters’ mother, recovering from a trifling cold; Mrs. Braxton’s pet pug and her trick of playing dead; and Miss Denham’s recent trip to Yorkshire to visit her elderly aunt. And he seemed to care about them all.
Curious.
But not the sort of gentleman for me. I have always been one to prefer my company with a sprinkle of sarcasm, a dash of wit, perhaps even a pinch of cynicism—qualities Mr. Van der Meer seemed to distinctly lack. If charm were a dish, his would be a rich, overwhelming dessert, while my taste leaned more towards the subtly spiced.
Dinner concluded with an array of sumptuous trifles, tartes, meringues, and a syllabub worthy of its own sonnets, after which the drawing room became the stage for various parlor amusements. The dessert, however, seemed not to have done wonders for Charlotte, who appeared a touch peaked. Her usual rosy complexion had dulled to a shade I was certain wasn’t found in any artist’s palette.
“Charlotte,” I whispered, leaning in close, “perhaps you should sit this round out.”
She glanced at me, rolling her eyes in a manner I knew all too well. “Lizzy, I am perfectly hale. If I had wanted to be mothered, I would have stayed in Hertfordshire.”
Shaking my head, I acceded, though with concern nipping at my heels. We dived into a riotous game of charades, wherein Mr. Boisterous—as I had affectionately named the loud gentleman—did a terribly exaggerated rendition of Romeo that had everyone in splits. This was followed by several rounds of cards, where Lady Boisterous—his wife—displayed a rather unsettling, aggressive streak, especially when she lost.
But the pièce de résistance of the evening, the crowning jewel of Mr. Van der Meer’s gathering, was unmistakably the strategically hung mistletoe. It swayed gently in the center of the room, an unassuming sprig that held the power to spark both excitement and dread. Throughout the evening, I couldn’t help but notice how some guests, especially the gentlemen, seemed to be adjusting their trajectories to pass beneath it—sometimes more than once. Yet most of these passes were accompanied by cheeky grins and playful nudges, the romance of the tradition replaced by jest and jest alone.
Poor Charlotte. Oh, how she tried, bless her heart. Every now and then, she’d meander close to the mistletoe, attempting an air of nonchalance that, to my eyes, screamed “Notice me!” And, oh, how I cheered for the twitchy cravat-adjuster to take the bait. It would have been such a sweet, albeit awkwardly adorable, pairing. But every time he neared, it was as if fate intervened. Once, he turned just as she approached, sending her crashing into a tray of drinks. Another time, just as it seemed he might actually make his move, he was whisked away by Mr. Boisterous for another uproarious round of charades.
Well… there would be more parties to attend.
7
8 December
“Jane,thereisanote for you,” Aunt Gardiner announced after breakfast the next morning.
Jane and I shared a swift glance. “Miss Bingley?” I guessed.
Jane’s cheeks flushed as she took the note from our aunt and tore open the seal. She was holding her breath as she read, and I studied her closely, waiting for her to either gasp in pleasure or sigh in disappointment. But she did neither. Her brow pinched, she tilted her head, and drew her upper lip between her teeth.
“Well?” I asked.
